I Plight Thee My Troth
by JamesLuver
Summary: On their wedding night, Bates watches Anna sleep, marvelling at everything they've overcome so far and pondering their future.


**A/N:** It's Easter, and I thought that it would be fun to have some Anna/Bates stuff to celebrate with.

Now, Anna/Bates is not my strongest suit. I adore both dearly and they're one of my two OTPs of this fandom, but I find it quite difficult to get them down on paper. Or Microsoft Word. Whatever. I know for a fact that there are lots of absolutely wonderful A/B fanfic writers out there, so I would be incredibly grateful for your opinions. What did you like? What didn't you like? :) Practice makes perfect, and I don't intend to stop writing Anna/Bates anytime soon, but I would love to improve. :D

**Disclaimer:** None of it belongs to me...

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_I Plight Thee My Troth_

The candles flicker warmly over the walls, making the room dance in and out of the shadows. Anna's face is veiled prettily with the candles' wavering light, and Bates sighs contentedly as he watches the patterns that are mapped out over her features.

Anna. Anna _Bates_.

Even though he has had several hours to get used to the notion that the beautiful young woman is now his wife, he still cannot think of it without a huge grin spreading across his face. Slowly, his fingers begin to glide through her silken hair, enamoured by the way it looks scattered over the pillow and cascading messily down her back.

At dinner, he had been almost unable to keep the broad smile from his face, knowing that it would have been inappropriate for such a sombre occasion, what with Miss Swire's passing. Still, he had conversed lightly with Anna over dinner, the occasional twitch of their lips and the too-frequent brushing of their hands more telling than their innocent conversation about how glad they were that her ladyship would recover well from her Spanish flu scare and how sad they were that Miss Swire had been unable to fight her way through it, all the while unable to stop thinking about the secret that they now shared between them. It hadn't stopped Miss O'Brien from shrewdly commenting that they seemed far happier than the situation warranted. Exchanging looks and stifling grins, they had made stumbling excuses, not wanting to seem disrespectful in the face of such a tragedy. Mrs. Hughes had eyed them suspiciously but had dismissed it with a wry shake of her head.

When Anna had come to him earlier that night, eyes shining mischievously, breathing huskily in his ear that she had managed to procure them a room for the night thanks to Lady Mary and Jane, he had felt both elated and terrified that their marriage could be consummated. It had been a long time since he had last made love to someone he'd truly cared about, and he hadn't wanted to disappoint his Anna in any way. He'd also felt himself flush scarlet at the thought of Lady Mary knowing what they were going to be up to that night, uniting together as man and wife. Still, it had left him with a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. Out of everything they'd ever done, this was right, he'd decided. He'd tried his best to court Anna properly over the four years – taking her to teashops in the village, long walks around the grounds when the family had not been entertaining, shopping ventures to the nearby towns when their half-days had permitted it. Their wedding hadn't been the scene he'd been envisaging. Two witnesses they hadn't known in a secret ceremony to be concealed from the rest of their friends had not been his ideal day. Anna should have been centre of attention. She should have had a beautiful white gown rather than her best Sunday dress, should have been surrounded by their closest associates, not two people who had no connection to their lives.

"Right man," she'd reminded him, face aglow, when they'd emerged from the registrar office, but it hadn't stopped him from feeling a little worthless even in the happiest moment of his life.

Now he lies beside her, watching her sleep. She'd told him under no circumstances was he to allow her to drift off, but he does not have the heart to wake her when she looks so peaceful.

"It's going to be our only night together for a few days until things calm down," she'd told him. "There will be plenty of time for sleep then. Tonight is just going to be about the two of us."

But her breathing is deep and even, her lashes brushing delicately against her skin, her face open and innocent, and he will not break that spell. Instead he is content to trace the features of her being with reverent eyes while she gets the rest that he cannot. Years of insomnia and, more recently, his bad leg have prevented him from getting more than a few hours' snatched sleep at night, but for once he is grateful for it. It means he can spend the time worshipping his beautiful Anna the way she deserves to be. He lifts a hand to her face to brush away several errant strands of her blonde hair, savouring the feel of its silkiness between his fingers. Her hair has power over him; he finds he cannot keep his hands away from it. It has always been beautiful, but its beauty has been intensified today, entrancing him as they'd made love for the very first time, and she'd giggled shyly at his fascination before he'd kissed her breathless. In the aftermath, he'd spent his time running his fingers through it, softly showering every part of her face in kisses, marvelling the fact that they could be together like this always.

He can't quite believe that he can finally say those words. Everything they've been through in the last six years seems to have been an obstacle to their happiness. At first, he had been too terrified of the consequences to even think about acknowledging his feelings for Anna, even when she'd taken the chance and laid her heart out in the open to let him use it as he chose to. He can only imagine how much happier they could have been much earlier if he'd taken the plunge.

It had been wrong of him to treat her the way he had. He'd known from the beginning that he shouldn't have led her on. He shouldn't have flirted gently with her, shouldn't have allowed her to read the interest in his gaze. But he'd been unable to resist, the temptation of seeing her face light up at the sight of him too great, and in his male pride he'd felt good for it, flattered that such a beautiful young woman could ever show such an interest in him. And he'd slowly found himself falling for her, noticing her little quirks and cataloguing them away for future reference, from the way that her eyes sparkled with a certain light when she was feeling particularly mischievous, to the way she always pressed her hand against her stomach when she was upset. And when they'd shared the conversation about Lady Edith and Mr. Patrick in Lady Edith's room, oh, how he'd wanted to confess, open his chest and let her see how his heart thumped for her and only her.

He hadn't been able to, of course. How could he have burdened a beautiful young woman with her entire life ahead of her with the baggage of an old, crippled man? It had caused a regretful ache in his heart to push her away like he had, but he'd told himself that it was for the best. She would meet someone more suitable and forget all about him.

He hadn't allowed himself much time to think about that.

She was tenacious, however, and hadn't shied away from his past like she should have done. He'd been on the verge of kissing her out there in the courtyard the evening he had revealed the worst of himself to her, so in love with her that it seemed impossible, until the spell had been broken by the clumsy moving of crates somewhere out of sight. She'd run from him then, but never had again, striving to clear his name for his lordship, allowing him to keep his job.

He'd still maintained that one day she would meet a better man, despite her protestations that there wasn't one for her. At least, she might have done if he hadn't warned Molesley away, unable to bear the thought of that poor, dull man taking her innocence away, giving her a life and family.

And then the war had broken out, forcing him to re-evaluate everything in his life.

Her eyes had met his after the announcement. Wide, confused, fearful. He'd known the expression was mirrored in his own. Nothing had been exchanged, not then. Chaos had broken out after the announcement, and everyone had had to pull together in order to ensure a smooth ending to the party as guests began to leave to share the news with others.

They'd met each other out in the courtyard, in their secret spot, that night. Since the announcement, he had been plagued by the news of the war, by the way that her eyes had sought his. How could he have left her wallowing in uncertainty after that?

She'd reached for his hand, lacing their fingers securely together. He'd squeezed her hand, to reassure himself as much as her, and for a few minutes neither of them had spoken.

"War has a way of changing things," she'd finally said, wise beyond her years.

And then her eyes had met his, and he'd been lost. Even though he'd known that he shouldn't, he'd been unable to prevent himself from spilling his heart to her in a stumbling, painful outburst, declaring every corner of his heart as hers. She'd soothed him afterwards, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, and then they'd shared their first kiss. He'd tasted the salt from her cheeks, felt her warm hands trembling on his shoulders, and he'd shivered as her tongue had tentatively met his for the first time. The height difference was something to marvel at, a lovely obstacle to overcome, and their embraces always found them with Anna on her tiptoes and Bates stooped to even them out. Sometimes it felt a little awkward to be positioned in such a way, but it always ceased to matter when her lips found his eager skin.

And then everything had fallen apart around them. Vera had returned, hell-bent on wreaking havoc on their lives, and Bates had submitted to her wishes. His heart had ceased to beat in his chest the moment that he'd had to break Anna's. Living with Vera again had been one of the worst experiences of his life. He'd rather have returned to the dark days of prison. She'd sneered at him and put him down and taken a nauseating enjoyment from watching him flinch every time she drew near him. She'd also taken a perverse interest in attempting to draw him back to bed with her, running her hands across his broad shoulders and dropping poisonous kisses onto his skin, making him feel dirty. He'd tried to keep his spirits up by clinging to the images of Anna's smile and Anna's scent and Anna's touch, but all he could remember was the memory of her trembling voice and teary eyes and agonised sobs as he'd limped away from her.

He hadn't deserved to be healed by her when he'd destroyed her spirit so thoroughly.

But then everything had changed once again when he'd discovered the evidence that Vera had been unfaithful to him and he had left London for Kirkbymoorside in order to be nearer to Anna once more. He had hoped his work in the pub would take his mind off of everything, but it hadn't; if anything, it had made things ten times more difficult to bear. Working in such close quarters with his own personal temptation had been almost too much for him to tolerate, and on more than one occasion he had found himself staring longingly into the bottom of a glass of whiskey before he'd found the strength to throw it away, the image of a betrayed Anna burning in his mind. Although it had taken every ounce of his self-worth not to succumb to his old ways, he had been resolute to stay strong. He hadn't been sure if Anna would ever want him again, but he'd been determined not to give in.

It had taken him months to gather up the courage to travel to the centre of the village on the day that he knew was her half-day off. He'd longed for just a glimpse of her for far too long, and his heart had dithered between leaping and sinking when he'd caught sight of her slight figure exiting the local shop. After all, he'd gotten what he'd been yearning for for months. And yet…and yet it had only served to make him ache for her soothing touch even more. It had also not escaped his notice that she'd looked tired, pale, drawn. The self-depreciating part of him that never failed to speak in a disgusted, jeering tone, had reminded him that it was _his_ fault that she'd looked like her spark of life had gone out. The weight of this knowledge had made him sag, the lines of despair etching forever deeper into his countenance.

For the first time in a long time, his self-blaming had been justified.

But then she'd somehow found him once again, had not left her fleeting glimpse of him as a wishful deception of her memories. Her appearance in front of him in the public house had seemed surreal. He'd told himself that he was hallucinating, that she would never want him now that he'd let her down so painfully. But she'd spoken – a little coldly, it was true, but spoken all the same – and he'd been given reason to believe all over again.

It had taken them a while to repair the fences that he'd so spectacularly demolished. Sometimes it had been awkward for him, working desperately against the tide of regret and hurt, and he had stumbled, at a loss of how to fix things; but she'd always been able to read his moods well, and then was no exception. She'd simply taken his hand in hers, squeezed it reassuringly – and, somehow, everything had been all right. Their kisses had been shy and fumbling as they'd tried to express all they couldn't through words, and he'd made sure to take his free hours away from work to coincide with her half-day. Taking full advantage of this, they'd visited the shops together, he'd treated her to tea in the local teashop and, on a few more daring occasions, he'd taken her back to the small room that he'd been renting. She'd been curious, exploring every corner, familiarising herself with the space he used, and it had taken every ounce of self-control to not take her up on her offer of making her his mistress. It hadn't stopped them from taking advantage of the small bed in the room, however, curling up together, their clasped hands between them, staring into each other's eyes, learning the way that their bodies felt through the layers of their clothes, their mouths taking it in turns to give and receive. Those encounters more often than not would leave him broody after she'd gone, self-loathing and desire warring within him as he wished that he could give her everything that they both wanted.

And then Lord Grantham had walked through the doors to the pub, asking him to return with him to his old job. The complete faith that his lordship had shown for his former batman had given him fresh hope.

It had been one of the greatest moments to return to Downton. Of course Anna had been waiting for him, greeting him alongside Mrs. Hughes, even daring to run her fingers across his clothed arm, a promise that the intimacy that had grown between them during his time away did not have to end. His heart had swollen with love for her, but he'd retained his professional front, only flashing her a smile instead of taking her into his arms like he longed to do.

Their relationship had gone from strength to strength from there, even withstanding a second attack from Vera. They'd presented a united front against her, standing together and taking all of the insults that she threw at them, even though her sneering comment about Anna being a floozy had made Bates wish for the man that he had once been. Vera had left the house in a fury, and Anna had taken his hand and stood close while he'd slowly brought his dangerously simmering temper to a safer temperature. When Vera's attempts to ruin the Crawley family name had been thwarted by Sir Richard Carlisle, Bates had dared to hope that despite her harrowing warnings, the worst was finally over.

Until, that was, she'd blocked the divorce and he'd gone to see her, his temper flaring once again. They'd hurled insults at each other, and his infamous razor sharp tongue had surfaced from its time in hibernation. She'd called Anna things – horrible things – sneeringly suggesting that she doubted that the saintly Anna was as saintly as everyone believed she was, and something had snapped within him. He'd started towards her, teeth bared in a primitive snarl, and she'd reacted by throwing one of his mother's prized ornaments in his direction. It had smashed on the table in front of him, and the jagged pieces had flown in every direction from the force of the breakage. One of them had torn into his skin; fresh blood had immediately oozed to the surface. It had been enough to bring him to his senses, however, and with the echo of Anna's sweet voice in his head, he had fled, cursing both his temper for keeping him from being reasonable and his cowardice for failing to get the divorce through. He'd failed Anna. That was his greatest shame. He'd brushed her off that night, unable to look into her face and see the hope and love shining there. He hadn't deserved it. Not when he hadn't been able to achieve his goal. She hadn't taken that as a finality, though. Later that night she had found him, drawing him outside so that they could discuss matters in semi-privacy, her hands gently exploring the scratch on his face. He had succumbed to her touch, brokenly telling her that he hadn't been able to get Vera to agree to a divorce, but he had kept silent about the rest. There had been no need to tell her about how he'd regressed to the dog that he had once been before he'd arrived at Downton.

Still, he had felt a little better when she'd pressed her lips against his cheek and whispered that none of it mattered.

And then the unthinkable had happened.

When he'd received the telegram announcing Vera's death, he'd had to get out of the room. It had all been too much to take in. He'd left her the night before spitting fire, and then mere hours later she was dead. He should have felt some sorrow. And in some small, small way he had. Vera had not always been so bitter and twisted, and they had been fairly happy at the beginning of their marriage, before the African war had changed everything irreparably between them. Yet there was some part of him – some dark, animalistic part – that had breathed a sigh of relief at the news. She was dead. There were no obstacles now. He could finally be with Anna.

For a few months, everything had been fine.

And then the letter from his lawyer had arrived, printing Vera's stark, condemning words for everyone to see.

_John has written he is coming here tonight. His words sound as angry as I've ever heard him, and you know how angry that is. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm scared for my life._

_I'm scared for my life._

Anna's face had been the worst thing of all to deal with. The way she'd bitten her lip as she'd regarded him, as though she was harbouring the slightest of doubts that he could have done it. She'd known the story between him and Vera for long enough to know that his ex-wife had brought out the worst in him.

He'd managed to hold it together until he'd had the chance to get outside. The panic had hit then, making him double over with a sudden, sharp wave of nausea. He'd been the last person to see Vera alive. The letter had put him directly in the limelight. No suicide note, no sign of premeditation on her behalf, just the letter and his own visit. The police were sure to think that something untoward had occurred. He had no idea what to do.

Anna had found him later, hunched over in the courtyard, sweat beading at his temple, staring listlessly into the distance. He'd not heard her approach and had started with an almost feral fear when her gentle fingers had closed around his bicep.

"Mr. Bates?" she'd asked, experimentally stepping closer, watching his face blanch. "What's wrong?"

And he'd grabbed at her arm, too, eyes wild, expecting her to flinch away from him. She hadn't, of course.

"I didn't do it," he'd said hoarsely, unable to mask the cold fear in his voice. "I swear to you, Anna, it wasn't me."

"Of course it wasn't," she reassured him briskly, all traces of doubt gone, slowly prising his bruising grip away from her arm and gently linking their fingers together instead. "I know you, and you're not that man."

He'd swallowed hard, turning his gaze on her. How could she have so much unwavering faith in him? How had he ever thought he could be the one to take her innocence away, to chain her to an old man for the rest of her life?

She'd obviously sensed his darkening thoughts, for she'd raised his hand to her mouth, pressing kisses against his rough knuckles. "Come inside, Mr. Bates. Go to bed. We'll talk more tomorrow when you've had time to rest."

"I don't think I'll be resting tonight." He'd sounded childish, surly, but she hadn't shown her irritation.

"You should still get more comfortable," she'd said, her voice so reasonable that he'd been unable to argue.

"I don't deserve you," he'd murmured, sagging in defeat under her soft touch.

"You can keep telling yourself that," she'd whispered, cradling his hand against her cheek, "but I know the truth."

He'd been feeling more like himself just from her few words. She always knew exactly what to say to bolster his spirits. "And what's that?"

"That there's no one better for me than you," she'd replied, reaching out with her other hand to stroke his face. Mindful of the open back door, she'd reached up to press a brief kiss against his mouth. When they'd broken apart, she'd tugged on his hand, signalling that they ought to make their way back inside.

"Thank you," he'd murmured as they'd walked slowly together.

"For what?"

He'd squeezed her hand. "You know what."

Her face had been the one to darken this time. "I only wish I didn't have to leave you tonight."

"Anna–"

"No, I mean it," she'd overridden. "I want to be with you properly. I want to take care of you when you need it."

The breath he'd released had been slow, agonising. "One day," he'd said wistfully.

And now, that _one day_ has taken place, transforming his world for the better.

Anna shifts in her sleep, her warm breath ghosting across his cheek as he shuffles closer to her, pressing his mouth affectionately to the hollow of her throat. He stays there, unable to resist her any longer, flicking his tongue against her thudding pulse, rousing her slowly from her dreams by grazing his teeth against her skin. She stirs sleepily, stretching out her little body along his own, her eyes blinking blearily.

"Good morning," he greets her with a broad grin, a large hand sliding down the line of her side to splay lethargically along the jut of her hip.

She groans groggily, pulling herself closer to him to tuck her head under his chin. Her fingertips knead his back. "It's not morning yet. I'm not moving."

He chuckles, pushing his nose into her soft hair. "I thought your tales about you being terrible in a morning were just horror stories to scare me away."

"Well, they're not," she says, and her grumpy tone only makes his smile widen. "But I'd be an even bigger monster if you'd run away from them." And then she shoots backwards, her eyes wide and adorably accusing. "You let me sleep!"

"I did," he confirms wryly. "And just imagine what you'd be like if I hadn't."

She pouts, knowing that he is right, and strokes her fingers through his chest hair. "All the same, you should have kept me awake."

"And how would I have done that?" he teases. "You could barely keep your eyes open when I was kissing your neck earlier."

"You should have been more creative, then," she murmurs, offering her face to him. He takes the invitation, encircling her more tightly in his arms, his mouth gentle yet possessive against hers. She sighs contentedly, nuzzling against his cheek when they part.

"How are you feeling, anyway?" She can tell from the way that his eyes flicker to the covers that he's inquiring about more than just her current sleepy state.

"I'm fine," she says meaningfully. "Absolutely fine."

"You're sure? You're not too –"

"Very sure," she purrs, gathering the courage to let her hand linger at his belly. He sucks in a breath. "We need to make the most of tonight, after all. Who knows when we'll get an opportunity like this one again?"

"Who knows," he agrees, and she feels her playful mood catching like wildfire. Slowly, his hand creeps down her side, languidly stroking the bare thigh it comes into contact with. She shudders in anticipation under his touch.

And then his fingers wander further in and she cries out from his touch, burying her head against his skin to muffle her sounds, and he has to bite his lip to stifle his own groans of desire that want to answer hers.

They have come so far in the past four years and now, on their wedding night, it is about re-affirming the pledge that they made to each other all those years ago on the eve of the war and finally removing the last veil of mystery surrounding their relationship. Anna has put up with so much and tonight is his gift to her, letting her know just how much he worships her through whispered words and reverent touches.

He pledges to sate her every need.

Afterwards, she lays wound around him, skin flushed an attractive pink, breath leaving her body in appreciative pants. He strokes a hand lazily down her back, leaning in to kiss her softly. She reciprocates the action quietly, enjoying the slow decline from her high.

The candles have almost died now; the remaining embers do nothing to illuminate the room. Now they remain in the darkness of their berth, the intimacy heightened by the blackness.

At length, Anna pulls back to rest her head on the pillow. Her eyes search his face, from the tired smile on his lips to the weary glass in his eyes. She smooths her thumb over his cheek.

"I love you, Mr. Bates," she says, and he knows he will never tire of the way that the words sound leaving her mouth. Even though a part of him wishes that she would start calling him John, he cannot help but find her persistence of using his formal name endearing. Especially now, after this new intimacy.

"I love you too," he echoes. They are the easiest words in the world to speak. At one time he had struggled to admit it to himself, and it had taken him even longer to choke those words to her. Now he finds himself filling the darkness with his declarations, making up for all the times he should have said it and didn't.

Silence reins for a moment. Anna slips her hand into his and links their fingers firmly together.

"When will we tell people?" she asks.

Bates sighs, drawing their joined hands between them. "Later in the week, I suppose. After the funeral on Monday. We ought to let things settle down first before we mention it."

She grins brightly into the night, mirth dancing in her eyes. "I can't imagine what _that_ conversation is going to be like. I'm afraid it might give poor Mr. Carson a heart attack."

Bates chuckles. "I imagine the two of us bringing it up casually over breakfast. It will certainly be more interesting than listening to Daisy complaining that she did wrong by William."

"Perhaps I could forget to take off my wedding ring and you can start calling me Mrs. Bates," she muses equally impishly.

"That term of endearment is reserved purely for our marital bed, dear," he rumbles, playfully darting his fingers across her chest, eliciting a gasp from her throat. He smirks, thoroughly pleased with himself. "Anyway," he continues, "I'd much rather talk about something else."

She props her chin on his arm, her lips quirking. "Like what?"

"The future," he replies, unable to resist brushing a lock of hair from her face.

Anna's smile widens. Ever since Vera's sudden return and the hollow months that followed it, it's a topic that Bates has been reluctant to discuss, fearful that what they had would never be enough, that he would never be able to rid himself of Vera and give Anna what she'd been longing for. There have been other options for them – she's offered to be his mistress on more than one occasion, but now, even if they've married in the shadow of Vera's death and neither of them know what else the police might want from him, they can tentatively begin to dream that the future that they now hold in their hands might finally be theirs.

"The future," she echoes him, closing her eyes to listen to the sound of his voice. "Now, what does that entail?"

"A family," he supplies at once. "One to call our own. Perhaps we'll have pretty little girls with beautiful blonde hair and bright blue eyes that will go around breaking hearts when they're old enough, and I'll be forever chasing unsuitable lads away."

"Perhaps we'll have boys," Anna counters. "Boys with cheeky grins and dark eyes who will be as honourable as their father and will protest that I fuss too much but will never grow too old for their mother's love."

"A mixture, then," Bates decides with a smile. His hand squeezes hers softly. She adores the look in his eyes; it makes her feel giddy with hope.

"It's all going to happen for us, isn't it?" she whispers in wonder, reciprocating the action.

Tomorrow will bring back the doubts and the fears and the worry. But she'd asked for tonight and that's what he's going to give her. A night for them to learn how to lie in each other's arms, a night to discover how they fit so perfectly together, a night to discuss their hopes and aspirations for the future as husband and wife.

"Yes it is, Anna," he whispers in reply, guiding her head under his chin. She complies with a happy sigh, winding her arms around his waist and drawing herself closer to him.

"Tell me more," she commands, lips brushing against the underside of his throat, voice heavy with sleep.

"Like what?"

"Anything. Everything."

His fingers curl around her shoulder. "We'll live in a little cottage like his lordship said," he breathes. "Now that we're married, Anna, it can be very soon. Perhaps within a couple of weeks. And we can be like this together every night, snuggled up like this, warm even if it's snowing outside. We'll be able to travel to work together and eat our luncheon together. We'll have to leave each other in order to get our work done, but then we'll never have to leave each other at night again. And then, in a couple of years, when we've finally had the chance to be together, we'll start on that family…"  
He draws breath, mind whirring with the possibilities of what is to come, only to realise that at some point during his monologue she has slipped away from him, back into her dreams. He smiles at the blissfully peaceful expression on her face and enfolds her more firmly in his arms, relishing the feel of her naked skin. Tonight, regrettably, hadn't been his first time, but it's the first time that he has ever made love to a woman whom he feels so intensely for, and that in itself has made it a completely new experience for him.

The pocket watch on the bedside cabinet ticks and tocks softly, and he can just make out the time if he twists his head. Three thirty. In a couple of hours they will have to rise in order to ensure that they're back in their own rooms before the rest of the servants rise. They will have to spend the day pretending to merely be betrothed when they've shared so much than that. He'll have to sit by her side and talk to her amicably, and all the while his head will be filled with the visions of their night together.

But, for now, he is content to breathe in the musk of their lovemaking and hold her close to him, this beautiful, young woman who has changed his life so wonderfully over the last six years.

Today he has plighted his troth to his Anna, and he intends to spend the rest of his life making her as happy as he possibly can. The future might be uncertain for them, with Vera's death hanging over their heads, but he knows they can face whatever is to come together, as husband and wife.

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**A/N: **So, what did you think?

And Happy Easter to those who celebrate it!


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